The Diamond in the Rough
by Xirysa
Summary: ...and how it was found. It was a good thing he had gotten involved after all, it seemed. For the FE Exchange community on Livejournal. Happy holidays, Lacunose!


Written for **Lacunose** for the FE Exchange community at Livejournal—hope you enjoy it!

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><p><strong><span>The Diamond in the Rough<span>**

**_(and how it was found)_**

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><p><em><strong>Tana<strong>**:** But I'd always heard mercenaries were renegades, cutthroats, and oath breakers. You're nothing like that, though. So that's why I wanted to thank you—for fighting so hard for us._

_**Marisa**: It's not out of loyalty to you or to any kingdom. I'm happy as long as I have a chance to swing my sword._

Tana & Marisa, C-support

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><p>"So the kitten thinks she can fight!" The crash of pottery against the stone wall of the garrison echoed in the early morning air, still chill from the cold of the desert night. A group of half a dozen individuals, mercenaries all, had begun to crowd around a slight figure leaning against the garrison wall and were, it seemed, goading on one of their own. Gerik glanced at them, craning his neck in an attempt to get a better view. "What's going on over there, do you think?" he asked the older woman beside him.<p>

"It's just the new girl," Carinne replied. She brought the stem of the long clay pipe to her lips and held it between her teeth, inhaling deeply and letting out a long plume of smoke leisurely before replying. "She got on Tourne's bad side; took more than her share of the pay, he says." She looked at him over the pipe. "But I think he just doesn't like the fact that she's a much better swordsman than him. I wouldn't worry about her—she looks like she can take care of herself."

Gerik shrugged. "I don't know," he said, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. "Tourne's someone you don't want as your enemy." Something in his shoulder popped, and he rolled the joint experimentally a few times before letting the arm hang easily at his side. "She's just a kid."

Carinne shook her head and looked at Gerik out of the corner of her eye. "Hey, tiger," she said. "Slow down." She nodded toward the group at the wall. "You know as well as I do that shortcuts won't cut it out here." Clenching the pipe between her teeth, she shifted on the hard earth until she found a more comfortable position. "The girl's got to learn on her own."

"But—"

The older mercenary sighed and looked up at Gerik. "You're a smart man, Gerik, and a damned good mercenary—probably one of the best I've worked with. But there's some fights you can't get into, and this is one of them."

Someone in the group at the wall gave a yell, and Gerik looked back at them. "I have a bad feeling about this," he told Carinne—she didn't respond, instead opting to puff on her pipe contentedly a few times and idly watching the events at the wall play out, and Gerik made his way to the crowd of mercenaries.

Another sudden shout, sharper than the last, echoed in the early morning air, and Gerik broke into a jog at the sound. It wasn't a long distance from the garrison to the old fire pit he and Carinne had been sitting at—perhaps only a stone throw, at most—but when Gerik finally arrived to the group it was clear that whatever had transpired had happened much faster than even he had anticipated.

Tourne, a man of average height and build, was pressed against the stone wall. One side of his face had been scraped raw by the stone, the other forced uncomfortably against the rocky surface. His left arm was pinned behind him by a young woman, barely a girl, and his scabbard was empty—the blade lay in the dust at his feet, useless.

Gerik pushed his way through the circle of mercenaries and placed his hand on the girl's shoulder. "Hey," he said. "Let him go." He nodded at Tourne. "Looks like he got the point."

"Don't butt into other fights," Tourne snarled—Gerik couldn't tell if it was in humiliation or pain. "This is between the girl and I."

Gerik raised an eyebrow. "Looks to me like this is between you and the wall." He looked at the girl. "Let him go."

She didn't move. "He attacked me. I reacted accordingly."

"Sure you did," Gerik replied, "but you still need to let him go. We've still got a job to finish. We need every man who can fight."

For a moment, the girl did not move. Then, almost unwillingly, she relinquished her grip on Tourne's arm and stepped away from him. A few mercenaries chuckled as Tourne slumped to the ground, gripping his shoulder and groaning in pain, and one of them stepped forward and offered Tourne her hand to help him up. He swatted her hand away. "Don't need your help," he growled. "Kid had luck on her side, that's all." He managed to stand up and leaned against the wall. "You hear that, kitten?" he told the girl. "It was luck."

"My name is not 'kitten'," she replied. "It's Marisa."

Her voice, flat and emotionless, caught Gerik's attention, and he looked down at her. She—Marisa—was a slight girl, barely up to his chest in height, and slender, like the reeds that grew beside the rivers by which Jehanna's few large cities flourished. But her arms and legs were lean with muscle, and here and there her skin was marked by the faded scars of old wounds. The girl might have been new to the mercenary lifestyle, but it was obvious that she was, at the very least, familiar with the basics of fighting.

"Marisa, then," Tourne continued. He hawked, and spat a globule of phlegm at Marisa's feet. It missed and landed on the ground beside her boot, turning the dirt dark with moisture, but the intent of the action was clear. "I see you trying to act more than you're worth," he said, "and I'll make sure this job's your last."

Marisa's answer surprised Gerik. "Very well. I look forward to it."

Tourne's eyes widened almost comically. "Why, you—" He bent down to retrieve his sword from the dusty earth, but was stopped by a boot stepping heavily on the blade.

"Hey," Gerik said. "I think that's enough."

A few long moments passed as Tourne clenched his jaw and looked between Gerik and Marisa; the group surrounding them stood with bated breath—they would not enter the fight, if one were to break out, but they were curious to see how the events would play out. But finally Tourne let go of the blade and stood. "You're lucky," he told Marisa before turning away and heading to the arched entryway of the garrison, his injured arm cradled against his chest. Most of the group left shortly after as well, to take care of their own business; a few individuals lingered a bit longer, but when it was clear that nothing more would happen, they too left.

Gerik knelt down and picked the sword from the earth, wiping the blade of dust on his pant leg before handing it to Marisa. "Here," he said. "You can never have too many of these."

She took it. "Why didn't he attack you?" she asked.

Gerik smirked. "Tourne? He's scared of me. I'm Gerik." He grinned. "If he bothers you again, just mention my name."

Marisa blinked. "What happened?"

"Long story." Gerik shrugged. "Nothing to worry yourself about—but if he bothers you, tell him you're friends with me. That'll stop him." He looked at her. "What'd you do to bother him so much?"

The girl shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "He accused me of intending to take more than my allotted share of the payment for this job. But it was a false accusation. Money means nothing to me."

The words surprised Gerik. "Really?" he asked. "Is this your first job as a merc?"

"A 'merc''?"

"Merc. Mercenary."

She nodded. "Yes. Why?"

"No reason." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Most mercenaries are in it for the money. But you're not."

"I am looking for an opponent," Marisa stated. "Someone worthy of my blade."

"And Tourne wasn't?"

Marisa shook her head. "He's strong, but he chooses to fight behind others. He's not worth it." She looked up at him. "You're not like that."

A smile crossed Gerik's face. "You mean I'm worthy of fighting you?"

Again, she nodded. "Yes. Shall we spar?"

"You're quick to the point, aren't you?" Gerik chuckled. "Sure," he said, "but not now. When we finish this job, maybe."

She seemed to mull the thought over for a moment. "Very well, then." She fell quiet and moved to lean against the wall.

Unsure of what to say, Gerik too became silent. Then a thought struck him. "Say," he said, "do you have any plans after this job?"

Marisa shook her head. "Nothing. Why?"

"I've got a couple of friends back in the capital. We're a smaller mercenary group, but we're always looking for members." He raised an eyebrow. "You're welcome to join us, if you want."

For a moment, Marisa seemed taken aback by the offer. Then she narrowed her eyes. "Where are your friends, then? You don't work together?"

"They stayed back for this job," Gerik explained. "Their skills didn't really fit the job description."

"Oh. I see." She became quiet again, uncertain of what to say.

"I think you'd like them," Gerik continued. "One of the girls, Tethys—she's maybe a few years older than you. She's got a brother, too." He grinned. "You could call us a family."

Marisa nodded. "I see," she repeated. "A family." The thought seemed to distract her.

"It's your choice," Gerik said. "But the offer still stands. You're not interested in money, but you can look for as many opponents as you want." He gestured to the blade in her hand. "And if you want, you can spar with me whenever you'd like." He grinned at her.

Again, Marisa did not respond immediately. "I'll think about it," she said. She pushed off against the wall and turned to the garrison's entrance. "I need to go."

Gerik nodded. "Later, then," he replied.

With one last curt nod of recognition, Marisa left. Gerik watched her until she turned the corner and disappeared out of view into the old garrison. "Strange girl," he muttered to himself, before turning to rejoin Carinne. "Looks like I've got something to look forward to."

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><p>Gerik and Marisa are actually really difficult to write. Who would've thought?<p>

Also, oh hey. An actual sort-of narrative. Will wonders ever cease?

Disney, by the way, is an excellent source for titles. Heh.

Happy holidays, everyone!


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